


Shared Quarters

by dornfelder



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, PWP, episode coda, spn 2.13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-17
Updated: 2012-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-29 17:04:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dornfelder/pseuds/dornfelder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's lying on his Magic Fingers bed sound asleep and butt naked, pants and briefs in a tangled heap on the floor. His legs are spread just enough to expose his balls, soft and rosy-tinted between gold-brown pubic hair. His fist is still loosely curled around his dick, which is also soft and resting on his thigh and covered in... fuck, covered in flakes of dried come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shared Quarters

**Author's Note:**

> Set somewhere around 2.13 (Houses of the Holy). Yeah, that bed, the very one. Beta: whit_merule

****  
Shared Quarters   


Sam enters the motel room after a soft, barely there attempt to knock with his left foot. Hands full of bags with fries and burgers, a sixpack and a couple of library books, he looks for a place to put it down all at once without causing damage to their precious junk food. Dean would give him hell if the fries got crushed. Sam turns towards his bed and dumps the books and the sixpack unceremoniously in the middle. He puts the food on top of it with a little more care and, straightening up, sighs with relief.

That's when he's hit with the smell, and just like that, every thought of food or research is erased from his brain.

Because the smell is familiar, terrifyingly so, and he'd know it anywhere, anytime. He hasn't smelled it like this in a very long time, though, pure and undiluted, not weakened by clothes and bar smoke and latex.

Sam turns around, not sure what exactly to expect, but with quite an educated guess as to what Dean's been up to in his absence. And then his jaw drops and he just stares at his brother unbelievingly. _Oh, God._

Dean's lying on his Magic Fingers bed sound asleep and butt naked, pants and briefs in a tangled heap on the floor. His legs are spread just enough to expose his balls, soft and rosy-tinted between gold-brown pubic hair. His fist is still loosely curled around his dick, which is also soft and resting on his thigh and covered in... fuck, covered in flakes of dried come.

Sam swallows with a dry mouth, dizzy with the way his blood pools south and makes his dick strain against the all too constricting denim. He's hard so fast, turned on in a way he hasn't been in years, and presses his palm against it, trying to keep it down and regain control. His breathing, already labored by the short jog from the car to their room, goes ragged.

Dean, on the other hand, looks blissfully content, sated, relaxed like he's just gotten laid good and proper. Sam inhales once, and it's like getting a dose of a heady drug. Porn's still running on the TV, muted, and a couple of used, carelessly crumpled tissues are lying on the floor beneath the bed, next to the remote. _Fuck, Jesus._ Dean must have gone at it with dedication, two or maybe three times in a row. The evidence is solid; he even took his pants off and went to sleep afterwards stark naked, which goes against every deeply ingrained instinct a hunter owns. Sam wonders for a moment whether their Dad's vengeful spirit will be bursting through the door any moment to chop up Dean's dick in retribution.

He can't stop looking, drinking in the sight and transfixed by it. The smell, intoxicating as it is, is nothing new, belonging to his childhood and youth like the fine layer of dust on the Impala's windshield, like the taste of mayonnaise on soggy tuna sandwiches and the heated metal of a gun in his hands. He doesn't know when he first smelt it. He never consciously acknowledged it, not for the first few years at any rate; in musty motel bathrooms in New England and in tiny, cramped bedrooms in a run-down suburban area in Arkansas; in isolated two-room cabins up in Montana, or in crappy public housing apartments in Oklahoma. Dean was careful enough not to get caught in the act, and Sam wasn't the most attentive person in the world anyway at the age of nine or ten. It became obvious as he got older, thirteen, maybe fourteen, and seriously started jerking off himself. He knew, then. His brother's sweat, his brother's come.

Realizing what it was worked like a heady drug: suddenly he got hard smelling the faint traces of his brother's scent, the only evidence of what Dean had been up to in the shower, inside the garage, behind the questionable privacy of a paper-thin bedroom door. It was worse when Dean started going out with girls all the time, coming home drenched in it, exertion and the flavored condom's artificial sweetness and the girl's body odor all over him.

He has smelled it a hundred times since then, on the road again with Dean after Stanford, but never like this, never so pungent and overwhelming. If Dean ever walked in on him like this – not going to happen, because Sam, as opposed to him, has the decency to limit his jerk-off sessions to the bathroom, short and perfunctory and perfectly sufficient, thank you very much – he'd take terrible revenge. Iced water, glue, wax – nothing off limit there except for permanent disfigurement. Sam knows his brother. Displayed for all the world to see like this, Sam's genitals would be subjected to horrible torture, no doubt.

There's only one thing Dean would never, in a million years think of doing: the exact thing that makes Sam's mouth water and his dick twitch in his pants, moistness gathering at the tip. Fuck, but he wants it so badly, wants to crawl over Dean, lean forward to smell and taste his cock, take him in his mouth while he's still soft, lick him clean and make him harden slowly and thoroughly. Wants to lose himself in his brother's body, mouth and hands and cock, wants to turn Dean over and lick him open and sink into him bare, shoot his load up there and watch it leak out of his slick hole after, wants to lap it up and feed it to Dean, tasting himself and his brother until there's only one flavor, one smell left: _theirs._

All of a sudden Sam's standing in front of the bed without a notion how he got there. Forgot to send the memo, apparently. _What are you doing,_ his brain yells at him, high-pitched, hysterical little screeches. _No, no, no._

He stares, hands still on his cock. Knowing there's only one barrier left between them and what he wants most in the world, has always wanted to the exclusion of anything else, _peace, sanity, girls, an actual **life**_. Dean, laid out for him like this, is a temptation too hard to withstand. God, he's entitled to look this once, surely? He won't touch, he'd never... but he can't _not_ look.

Something's glistening wetly on Dean's dick, between his fingers. Lube, Sam realizes with something akin to surprise, if he weren't in a stage of shock anyway. The bastard made it real good. The small jar is still there, next to Dean's hip with a handful of change that Sam gave him this very morning. Sam bites his lip, images rushing to his head: Dean with his legs spread, playing with his balls, rolling them in his hand and tugging softly while the left hand is busy fisting his flushed, straining cock, not too hard either, pressure and speed just strong enough to make it last. Does Dean like to play with his hole? Has he ever tried to stick something up his ass, does he know how amazing it feels? Not a toy, Sam can't see him like that, although the thought alone is enough to make him shiver. Dean's had so many girls, did one of them ever push her finger inside to make him moan and go crazy with it? A blowjob, maybe, and a petite blonde with a long, limber forefinger, not big enough to hurt, sliding it in all the way while he's already fucking her mouth?

Sam barely notices he's already squeezing his cock rhythmically, the same pace the imaginary girl would set, bobbing her head and pushing her finger in and out in counterpoint. Sam's leaking steadily now. Maybe Dean would start to rock back and forth, caught between suction and pressure, trying to get more of both, trying to get her go deeper, take him in further. He wouldn't last long, not if he really liked it, really got off on it. He'd pull her hair, just a little, too far gone to do anything else for a warning, and he'd close his eyes and wait for the last, sweet little brush of her finger to shoot, wet hot pulses, and she'd drink him down and love it, milking him dry.

Sam's sick, so sick, thinking of a fictional girl and wanting to be in her place so badly. The worst thing is that he's too screwed up to even care. He _wants_ , so much, and he's close to losing it, to doing something unforgivable. Like pulling out his cock and jerking off all over Dean, painting his thighs and cock with his come. Like straddling Dean and kissing him awake, rubbing against him until he's hard enough Sam can ride his cock, sinking down on him slowly and taking every inch better than any girl would.

Sam's completely lost in his fantasies, fueled by the way Dean is unintentionally offering himself, spread open like that, so vulnerable. He'll be coming in his pants in a moment, just a little more friction, he's almost there. Almost...

“Sam, dude, what are you doing?”

Sam gives a start, scared witless. Dean's awake and looking at him, eyes unreadable, and, oh God, how long has he been awake, did he wake up when Sam came in and just pretended to sleep the whole time? Did he just wake up, is there any chance Sam could pretend this is not what it looks like, him jerking off over his sex-crazed brother?

Sam stumbles backwards, eyes darting around wildly, looking at anything but Dean. “I.. I got burgers,” he stammers and turns around to avoid eye contact. His dick is actually hurting him now, a sharp, throbbing ache between his legs, and he'd like to curl up in a corner somewhere and die. The pure physical pain of being so close to release and then held back, though, is nothing compared to the sheer panic he's feeling. Will Dean let it slide? Not a normal situation, that's for sure. If you walk in on your brother with his pants still off, porn still running on TV, that's got to count for something, maybe. “And... beer.” Sam doesn't turn around. He's trying desperately to come up with something snarky, something witty, something _brotherly_ that makes Dean forget about the awkwardness.

Silence. Nothing, not the rustling he'd have expected, the sound of Dean hastily putting on clothes.

Not a 'Sorry you got an eyeful, Sammy, maybe it'll teach you to knock first next time.' Not a 'Dude, if you want to jerk off, at least get your own porn. Not cool, Sam.'

Nothing, and Sam can't stand it any longer. He turns around and makes himself look at Dean. It takes every ounce of courage that he has.

Dean hasn't changed his position. He's still on his back, still naked, and holding Sam's gaze evenly, challenging. He slowly, oh so slowly, draws up one knee, foot on the mattress, and spreads his legs wider. Sam gasps, couldn't look away if he wanted to, eyes riveted on Dean. _Oh shit, oh, fuck Dean, what are you doing?_

Their eyes meet again and there's something dark and grim on Dean's face. “Yeah, thought so,” he says quietly.

Sam gasps again, the shock of revelation like being hit with lightning. Dean knows, Sam gave himself away after all, and he doesn't know what to do, what to say, waiting for long straining seconds for the inevitable to happen, for Dean to freak out completely and maybe even beat him to a pulp like Sam deserves. For a little moment he's almost glad it's finally over, all the lies, the pretense. The burden is no longer his to bear. It doesn't last longer than the blink of an eye, although it's a nice thought, and then it's pure, unadulterated fear, so strong he starts to shake with it.

“C'mere, Sammy,” is what Dean says, face unreadable, and Sam doesn't understand at first, as if Dean started speaking Ancient Greek. When he does, he inhales urgently, trying to make sense of it all. Dean's not particularly helpful, lying there like porn fantasy come true, eyes enigmatic, and repeats his order. “Come here.”

Sam takes one cautious step and then another until his knees hit the bed. He tries to swallow down the lump in his throat, resisting the urge to lick his lips. His heart beats furiously, and he wonders whether it shows on the outside, whether Dean can see what this is doing to Sam.

“You gonna do something about this, Sam?” Dean asks, and the invitation is clear this time, a challenge and a one-time offer: if Sam backs down now, Dean will never ask again.

“Yeah,” Sam breathes. “Fuck, yeah.”

“Then do it.”

That's an order Sam is, for once, only too happy to obey, and he falls to his knees in front of the bed, grasping Dean's calfs. He lets his hands slide upwards and pulls. Dean lets himself be dragged where Sam wants him without complaint, shifting his weight a little to find a more comfortable position.

Up this close, the smell is even more intense, but it's no longer the only thing that takes Sam's breath away. He's close enough to count Dean's freckles, barely visible in the dim light of the motel room, scattered all over his face. Dean's eyes are wide and dark, lips curved in a faint smirk. His cock is half-hard now against his thigh, but he's no longer touching it, one hand resting on the bedspread, close to his head, the other over his hip, relaxed, fingers curled. He seems comfortable in his own skin, perfectly content to just lie there and wait for Sam to have his way with him.

Sam doesn't have any plans. He just wants.

He bends down and presses his lips to Dean's stomach, just above the navel. Dean draws a sharp breath, and Sam licks a wet path straight down to his cock. Dean hisses as Sam's lips close around the head. “Careful, Sammy. 'M not fifteen anymore.”

Sam sucks, just a sweet little pull, and Dean's breath hitches. His dick hardens noticeably. Sam smiles at that, and Dean's hand is in his hair, tugging at the strands reprovingly. “Bitch.”

Sam can't exactly protest, with Dean's cock in his mouth and his own dick rock-hard and oversensitive. He swirls his tongue around the head, poking at the slit and tasting Dean, Dean, Dean. It might be not the most delicious flavor ever, dried semen and musk, but to Sam it's like heaven, heaven right there in his mouth, and Dean's almost fully hard-now and breathing unsteadily.  
Sam slows down. He knows it's going to take a lot longer for Dean to come after two – three? – recent orgasms, and he wants to take his time. He wants to draw it out, tease Dean until he's begging for it.

Except that Dean seems to have other plans. He tugs at Sam's hair again, uses it to pull him off his dick altogether. Sam makes a protesting noise but obeys anyway. Dean shakes his head, grinning at him. “Gimme a break here, cowboy. You're freakily good at this, but it'll take more than that. You gonna kiss me, Sam?”

It feels like he's going to hyperventilate. Sam closes his eyes, hoping it doesn't show on his face how desperate he is for this, how much he really wants it. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough. He doesn't dare to open his eyes, fumbling blindly instead, reaching for Dean.

“Come on, dude, you're starting to freak me out.” The teasing is gone from Dean's voice. He's taking the lead now, moving up on the bed and drawing Sam with him. “Sam. Sammy.” His hands guide Sam down to him, until Sam feels his breath on his face.

The kiss, the very first kiss, is soft and tentative. Sam moans against Dean's lips. It gets deep and dirty soon enough, heated and too frantic, until Dean hushes him soothingly. “Shh. That's it, Sam. Just like this, slow an' easy.”

Sam's desperate by now, trembling, whole body caught in a slow burn, like he's roasting on hot coals.

“Sam, look at me. Hey, look at me.”

Sam obliges. It takes some effort to open his eyes. Dean looks at him with a frown on his face and starts to smirk. “Too much, princess? Come on, let's take the edge off first.”

His finger fumble at Sam's fly, tugging at it with some difficulties, and Sam endures the torture with gritted teeth. He's been hard for what seems like ages, and the delicious pressure of Dean's fingers through the cloth isn't helpful. Then Dean gets his zipper open and Sam moans, relieved, hiding his face in Dean's neck and pressing his lips to the warm flesh.

Dean's hand is on him a second later, unceremoniously shoved down his boxers, and it takes about half a dozen pulls for Sam to come. He hisses and shudders, wants to scream with it and bites in his own hand instead to keep quiet. It goes on forever, wave after wave, leaving him weak and sated. He slumps down on Dean, who doesn't even bitch about it.

For all of ten seconds.

“Off, sasquatch,” Dean complains. “You're fucking heavy.”

Sam reluctantly rolls off him. “Sorry.”

“Don't go all sentimental on me now, Sam.” But Dean's hands are in his hair and keep petting him, stroking with skillful fingers and scratching with blunt nails.

“You're an asshole, you know that, right?” Sam retorts and buries his head in the pillow.

“Yeah, you love it,” Dean replies, smug as only an older brother can be. “Gonna fuck me anytime soon?”

Sam's heart starts beating wildly. He lifts himself up on his elbows, groaning, and starts discarding his clothes. “Give me a minute. Ten, at the very most.”

“That's my boy,” Dean says appreciatively, and, because he seriously aims for Sam suffering a heart attack at the tender age of twenty-two, starts fondling his own balls, hand still wet with Sam's come, smearing it all over himself and sighing blissfully. “Hey, in the meantime, you still got a quarter somewhere?”


End file.
